Molten Time
by lembas7
Summary: In an era where death is as common as breathing, Gabriel goes to the aid of a friend only to be dragged into the depths of mankind’s cruelty. But evil runs thicker than blood. Follows 'Ascending Angels'.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **I was told to let the plot bunnies run free, and they are. This story is the pseudo-sequel to my one-shot ASCENDING ANGELS. I highly recommend reading that before you attempt this one; it won't take long. This fic is also rated R, or M for Mature Audiences Only. It starts out dark, and I'm pretty sure it's going to get worse. It's the darkest plot bunny I've ever encountered, and I'm still vaguely shocked that I came up with it, to be honest. So beware. I do not want anyone under 15 even attempting it, but it's clear that I can't stop you. However, I strongly advise against it.

**Disclaimer:** Van Helsing belongs to Stephen Somers, and Indiana Jones to Lucas and Speilberg. Not mine. The title for this was, again, inspired by Dali, but to my knowledge was not a title for any of his works.

MOLTEN TIME

It was chilly in Burnham Park, despite the fact that it was only the first week in August. The man walking along the path gave in to the brisk wind off the lake, and zipped his jacket. That same wind ruffled his short hair, and he turned his face into it, wishing that the smell which greeted him was clean and clear, instead of putrid with trash.

It was well after dark, and only the stupid or foolish usually lingered in Burnham so far after sundown. This man was neither. Instead, he had the secure weight of a semi-automatic at his hip, a comforting reassurance. He was not inclined to think about such things, however.

He couldn't get the scene out of his head, and his memories of the last half-hour chilled him far more than Lake Ontario's stiff breeze. Violent things happened in Chicago, but it was always worse when the victims were children. And they were so young . . . he winced.

He had been called on the scene just after sundown, a few mere minutes after the original, panicked call had come out. A girl working in a pizzeria on South Canal Street had been taking out the trash, and found the still-warm body lying in the dumpster. She had been hysterical and nearly incoherent during the 911 call, and the cop couldn't blame her.

The victim had been thirteen-year-old Jody Suarez, a name that still meant nothing to the policeman outside of a horrific, and tragically youthful, demise. His face scrunched in disgust as he recalled the scene. The young girl had been laid out carefully in the dumpster, on her back with all her appendages sprawled, as if she had flopped into the trash for a nap. Her school ID, clearly identifying her as one of the children from PS 117, had been laid over a gruesome knife wound that pierced her heart. Already other members of the force were speculating on who had brought her to the pizzeria, and why. PS 117 was on the other side of the Chicago River, after all.

The man scowled, his stride forceful and angry, as he recalled what else had been determined at the scene. The specialists had been called in, and the body examined cursorily before the scene had been fully closed down for the night. Not yet cool, the body had been easily moved, and it had been quickly discovered that little Jody Suarez had also been injected with some illicit drug – judging from the needle marks, the cop was betting on heroin. She had also, quite recently, been sexually active.

All in all, it painted a picture of drugging, rape and murder that the cop had seen in two other sadly similar cases within the past few days. He was disgusted by the sudden serial trend, despite knowing that it happened all too frequently these days. The new millennium looked to be not much different from the old, and it was starting out on a bad foot.

But it was the expression on little Jody's face – a heart-striking mix of terror and betrayal, that haunted his thoughts.

The man grimaced, distracting himself from his morbid musings by concentrating on his surroundings. Chicago had precious few places free from the teeming humanity that choked every square mile of the city. The parks were intended refuges from machinery, that had varying degrees of success. Burnham was a little less successful than most, but had the advantage of being close to Lake Ontario. That in itself made the place a little easier to tolerate, but not worth the danger courted by spending too much time there.

The cop glanced around, noting with surprise the lack of usual skulking humanity. He expected to see pushers and muggers lurking in the shadows, waiting to ambush misfortunate passerby, but the shadows were suspiciously empty.

His stride grew longer, his steps more purposeful, as he realized the lateness of the hour. He needed to get home, to write up a report, and get at least some sleep before the morning grind began again.

It was then that he heard the first noise.

It tingled down his spine, the soft scuff of a shoe over dirt. Grey eyes darted to the shadows, keenly seeking the source, but it had stifled itself and was invisible. Hands, swinging loose by his sides despite the chill in the air, flexed cautiously. The cop was seriously considering the repercussions of drawing his weapon when the attack came.

A thick branch swung out of nowhere, slamming into his side with the muffled crack of breaking ribs. A gasped cry burst from his lips, but the cop was still standing. He could see almost nothing in the dark, a stand of trees blocking even the sliver of moon from him.

He reached for his gun, and went staggering to the left as something hard impacted the right side of his face. He was caught, roughly shoved upright and back into the circle of attackers.

He couldn't see their faces – nylon masks obscured features that were darkened in the night's shadows. Pushed from one to the other, he suffered various scrapes and bruises, sharp blows coming sporadically from nowhere to double him over. His first reach for his gun was thwarted as someone else got there first. He tensed, expecting to be shot, but the blast never came.

Instead, he was whirled and thrown between them – and there were many. Rage welled up inside, and he struck out. A few, short cries of pain were his reward, and he grinned to hear them, heedless of the blood trailing over his face from his nose, or the pain in his split lip.

Victory was short-lived. The sound of a shot rang through the air almost at once, but the cop did not fall. The gun had been fired into the air, bringing the combatants to an immediate halt.

_Good,_ the cop thought ruthlessly. _Attract more attention. _

But the eerie silence that swallowed the noise had the cop thinking uneasily of just how deserted Burnham Park was at three-thirty in the morning.

The fighters around him took a step forward, and he could see immediately what was coming. He fought tooth and nail, throwing his body at them without heed for his bruised and broken ribs, but to no avail. The cop was carried to the ground by the force of his attackers, crushed under the pile of bodies. Smothered beneath unimaginable weight, he felt the air pressed painfully from his lungs, gasping ineffectually to breathe. Sweaty and hot, the air he did get did him no good. Swirling blackness swept him out of time.

When he woke, he was tied and cramped. The rumbling heat of a motor under him informed him that he had been neatly tucked, like a trussed hog, into the trunk of someone's car. The space was too small for him, and he had a moment to wonder that he was yet alive. He could barely breathe now, making a conscious effort at it, and had no idea how he had done so while unconscious.

The car slowed to a stop for several moments, before sudden motion tossed him none-to-gently forward.

The rest of the ride – fifteen minutes in which he kept from fantasizing on how his life was going to end – was similarly torturous. Growing pain in his chest let him know that ribs were cracked, broken. The urge to cough told him that he was being optimistic in that assessment. The odds that a rib had punctured a lung, especially given his contorted position, were high.

Taking his mind off what was probably a serious rehabilitation period, if not imminent death, he tried to think of whom he had infuriated enough to merit this treatment. He hadn't gotten on the nerves of the local _mafiosa_ lately – except for jailing that one mob boss's son a few weeks ago. But that was business, not personal. After all, the boy had screwed up and the father – well, the cop figured he'd already be dead instead of wondering why he wasn't.

Pushers, muggers, local street thugs wouldn't and couldn't mobilize like this – they had neither the resources nor the will. The appearance of a cop-killer among the local street scum of Chicago would ensure a massive, active police response. The force did not take lightly to the murder of one of their own.

So that left – who? He was just another cop, had gone out of his way to remain unnoticed and ignored. If this was an opportunist attack, though, he figured he was royally screwed. Survival rates of cops against someone with a grudge against the police were not high. And the death would be a hard, brutal one.

He had no more time for such thoughts. The car had come to a stop, and the vibrating engine which had held out the promise of life with its muted roar had been silenced. The slamming of doors vibrated through the body of the vehicle, and the cop squeezed into the trunk could feel them. His stomach dropped, his heart beating in his throat.

He squinted at the sudden light as the lid to the trunk was opened.

"Officer Jones," he heard. The voice was distorted but understandable.

"Who are you?" he snapped breathlessly.

A low laugh was his only answer, before he was unceremoniously jerked from the car. The grating of bones in the side of his chest stole his breath, and he dropped to his knees with a voiceless cry. It was dark, the area around him smelling strongly of the lake and illuminated only by far-off streetlights.

His face was white with pain, his skin cold from shock and wet with fear-sweat. His captors – he counted three – unloaded something from the backseat of the car, and he froze in horror.

In this day and age, there were many ways to die; some worse than others. The cop considered those that went out on the highs of drugs, or the swift bite of a bullet, just as lucky as the ones who lived to ninety and drifted off in their sleep. It was a quick way to die, more painless than some others, and half the time you never even saw it coming.

There were worse ways to die. Killed by fire, or an angry lover, where you could feel pain in every fiber of your being. Falling to his death had always been a secret fear, one kept close and never shared.

But drowning – he had never considered it. He knew how to swim, and entered the water so infrequently that it had never really entered his mind.

An irreverent thought clouded his mind. So many sophisticated ways to die, in this day and age, and they were loading him onto a small boat, next to the cinderblocks they clearly intended to fasten to him before throwing him overboard.

He had been alive for far longer than the story his face projected, but he had never died. He knew of no real way to prepare, knew of nothing besides the facts and that his faith, never quite solid but still there, might not be up to this task.

Time flowed away from him again, but he was conscious this time, panic setting in as the boat's motor stopped as well, the only noise the quiet joking of his captors and the lapping of waves against the boat. No matter how long the journey had been, it would never be long enough. He was tightly wrapped in chains, padlocks ensuring his captivity to the many heavy blocks they wove around him with steel.

The men surveyed their job, quietly and in a moment of peaceful silence. For the captive, it was strained with the knowledge that it was quite possibly his last on Earth. "Why?" he scraped out, hoarse with pain and soul-clenching fear.

A harsh chuckle, bitter with experience, met his ears. "You _know_ why," the man answered then.

His struggles, as they lifted him up, were ineffectual, constrained as he was with rope and chain. The short drop to the water gave him enough time to gasp in a breath, one that was almost immediately stolen from him by the shock of such pervasive cold. Ontario was one of the Great Lakes – all that was left of an ancient inland sea. Not even in summer did it warm up for long.

He was dragged under quickly, descending as the weights pulled him inexorably downwards. The water made everything heavier, and even as he struggled, he spiraled deeper and deeper into the abyss. He continued to fight, refusing to give up, racking an exhausted brain for any escape even as his body grew heavy, bubbles escaping his nose and mouth to float freely upwards.

An idea, an old memory, sparked the last dying cells struggling for life. His lungs were pressing, his chest on fire with the pain, the need for air. In a last, desperate shout, his remaining air left him, and water rushed in. Darkness reached for him, and his consciousness faded, the name still ringing strongly in his mind.

"_Gabriel!_"


	2. Chapter 2

He burst violently back into life, coughing and choking and desperately seeking air. He barely felt the gentle hands that rolled him to his side, and he collapsed forward, water streaming from his nose and mouth. Hacking and sputtering, he emptied his stomach and took his first noisy gulp of oxygen.

It was followed by another, and another, until the stabbing pain in his ribs reminded him that he was alive. Sight and hearing came slowly back to him, but pain was the first.

When he could finally see and feel beyond the pumping of his heart and expanding of his lungs, he found that he was sopping wet and freezing, lying like a beached whale on hard cement. He couldn't have cared less. He was _alive_.

Slowly he pushed himself upwards, still greedily savoring every breath. He blinked the darkness from eyes that stung from the water, and the thin illumination of the moon coupled with nearby streetlights allowed him to see his rescuer.

The other man was similarly soaked, crouched on the filthy quay-side pavement not far from him. His dark clothing was drenched, his longish wet hair clinging to his neck. He shook his head once, sending droplets arcing to the ground. Hazel eyes were pinned on the formerly-drowned cop, his concern plain.

"Long time, no see, Gabriel," the cop in question wheezed.

A sardonic smile curved the other's lips, and he relaxed slightly. "And how have you passed the years, Indiana Jones?"

It was the first time he had heard that voice in decades, but neither man had changed a whit in appearance since then. It made him pause to recognize the buried power in the other, especially on first sight. But almost before his eyes, the other drew in on himself, until he was as unremarkable as the cop had been. Before he had been miraculously saved from almost certain death, that is.

"Y'know," he began, as Gabriel got to his feet, "I thought you said I couldn't die."

Over sixty years ago, Indiana had used himself to test the water of the Holy Grail, which he had needed to save his father. That self-sacrificing act meant that he and the distant man who had sired him were the only touchstones each other had in an ever-changing world. Marcus and Sallah were long dead, the noted scholars Henry and Indiana Jones meeting their demises as well, their lives converted to something else every decade or so.

"You can't," Gabriel told him, offering the archaeologist-turned-cop a hand up. The shivering man grasped it, hauling himself to his feet. "But I never said it would be pleasant."

"Thanks," Indy said sourly, wiping his face with a wet sleeve. He was suddenly thankful for the August warmth, scarce as it was.

For the first time he noted that he was also liberated of the chains that had so constricted him before, and he moved his arms freely in silent elation. A stabbing pain in his right side reminded him about his ribs, and he froze, lowering the arm slowly.

"Are you alright?" Gabriel asked quietly, sharp eyes missing nothing.

"For a dead man? Never better," Indy grunted, looking around. "How are we getting out of here?"

Gabriel looked at him sideways, before pulling a soaked cell phone from his pocket. Water oozed from the circuitry, and the hunter sighed quietly. "I guess we walk," he told the other wryly. "Unless you've got a better suggestion?"

There were no nearby vehicles, and Indy's own phone was waterlogged and useless. His radio was missing – most probably at the bottom of Lake Ontario. He accepted the result of the loss philosophically. The two men began to head southwest toward civilization, squelching with every step.

The two spoke quietly, Indy relating the details of what had happened to him prior to being dumped in the lake. They reached less deserted areas without incident, and Indy discovered to his shock that it was nearly five in the morning. He had been unconscious for over an hour before being dumped overboard.

They reached a pay phone and Indy leant on the outside of the glass booth, resting as Gabriel made a call. Sitting on the curb, the two men enjoyed a companionable silence. Indy was by now in too much pain to speak, and after a moment Gabriel swore softly.

"Let me see," he said finally, startling the other.

"What?" Indy asked defensively, his arms wrapped around his chest. He had been hurt before, and had healed. Sometimes it had taken longer, but all had come right in the end. He had never shaken off his wariness of doctors – something that had been a benefit after drinking from the Grail.

Gabriel simply gave him a look, brows raised expectantly. It made Indiana feel about fifteen again, and he rolled his eyes, fighting the reaction. "I'm fine," he protested, albeit feebly.

Gabriel said nothing, only continued to look at him.

Indy huffed out an exasperated breath, which turned into a hiss of pain. Giving up, he slowly lowered his arms, and indicated the side of his chest. Looking for the first time, he could see the tear in both shirt and skin, and the faint blood spreading from the cut had blotched his shirt with pink stains.

Gabriel shifted slightly closer, and laid a gentle palm on the site of the injury. Livid bruises could be seen beneath the white shirt, and Indy winced at the soft touch. Staring down at the wound, he could feel warmth spreading through him from the site of contact, his head clearing as pain faded to a distant buzz. He could feel the bones moving gently, and though the sensation was strange, it was oddly without pain. He looked at the other man in surprise, and saw to his shock that Gabriel's eyes had turned ancient, the hazel glowing golden in the faint illumination of the streetlamp above them.

The hunter blinked, and the warmth faded. He removed his hand and Indy carefully shifted, moving his arm and even going so far as to twist his torso when the pain did not make a reappearance. The fuzziness in his head had cleared, and he felt invigorated, though soaked.

Gabriel, on the other hand, now looked tired. His face was paler than it had been a moment before, and he leant wearily back against the phone booth.

"It would have healed on its own," Indy found himself saying, a little defensively.

"I know," came the quiet answer.

Silence fell, and stretched. Lights from a car appeared in the distance, a vibrantly yellow taxi making its way toward them. "Thanks," Indy said.

Gabriel only nodded, but for them it was enough.

When the cab screeched to a halt at the curb, practically on top of their toes, Indy moved to help Gabriel in. The hunter glared at him, but slid inside without much protest. Following, Indy gave the driver directions to his apartment, then leant back and relaxed slightly.

The adrenaline from the rush of the last few hours was petering away, leaving only bone-deep exhaustion in its wake. They sat in silence for the duration of the trip, reaching what Indy off-handedly called 'home' twenty minutes and thirty-five bucks later.

Upon climbing the rickety stairs to the generous space, Indy wrestled free of his jacket, letting the sopping garment hit the floor with a wet smack.

The hunter followed him in, stepping around the discarded garment, and getting his first look at the place when Indy hit the light switch.

It was a wreck. "Son of a -" Indy bit the curse off, staring around in shock.

"I take it that it doesn't normally look like this then?" Gabriel asked in wry humor. This night just kept getting worse, it seemed.

"No," Indy all but snarled. "I'm not known for cleaning, but this is a little beyond my abilities."

The rooms had been ransacked, thoroughly and messily. Furniture was slit and upturned, paintings slashed with frames broken on the ground. The contents of every drawer had been emptied out onto the floor, creating a dangerous minefield of objects which crunched and shifted underfoot. In places the carpet had also been ripped up, and a wooden leg off the coffee table had been ripped off and hurled through a mirror, spraying glass everywhere.

In the kitchen, cutlery and shards of broken plates littered the ground, the cabinet drawers hanging forlornly open and empty. The thick table had an assortment of knives deeply lodged into the wooden surface, and many new scars in the thick wood betrayed the anger of the searchers.

The bathroom was the least damaged of all the rooms – probably because outside of emptying the medicine cabinet and putting a bullet through the toilet tank, there wasn't much there that was open to damage. Sprays of shrapnel littered the tiled shower stall, however, and the glass door had been shattered as well.

The empty guest room had been fervently attacked, but Indy's bedroom was the site of the most destruction. A strange tang assaulted his nostrils, and he sneezed, squinting to see in the dark. The blankets had been ripped off the bed, the mattress now no more than a mass of cloth and coiled springs. Bullet holes riddled the walls and dresser, which had been literally thrown across the room. The heavy piece of furniture lay crumpled, as if a giant hand had crushed it flat. The only thing that didn't seem to have been touched was the bedframe. Indy reached for the lightswitch, but a few of the bullets seemed to have impacted the wires in the walls. It was a miracle they hadn't accidentally burned the entire place down.

It wasn't until Gabriel moved to the window, and opened the shades, that Indy could see what else had been done. Light from the street not far below reflected up through the glass, painting the room in gentle, shadowy shades of yellow and orange. The blood stood out shockingly, grabbing their attention. It had been painted over and on the bedstead, and on the floor underneath where the mattress had been. Like a child, oblivious to the mess being made, the stuff had pooled and spread, smearing over wood and cloth and filling the room with the sharp coppery scent of blood.

Indy felt himself swaying, this last shock one too many for the night. On his right side, he was steadied by a man whose face had gone as pale as his own. "Let's get out of here," Gabriel breathed.

The two men shut the door of the room behind them, and Indy looked almost despairingly up at the other. "What do we do now?"

Gabriel picked up the phone, a sleek cordless object lying in the rubble by his foot. He lifted it to his ear, and frowned. "Call the police," he directed, handing it to Indy.

Regular response time was nearly halved when the dispatcher recognized the tired, strained voice on the other end as Officer Jones. No more than ten minutes passed before three full teams of police entered the apartment, and Gabriel and Indy found themselves hustled out and away while the police did their job. The entire area was cordoned off, and Gabriel found himself next to his friend, giving a statement in a small twenty-four hour café just down the street. More cars kept passing, unmarked but for flashing lights, stopping at the apartment complex.

He listened quietly as Indy gave a story about being attacked by the quay-side and pushed into the water, then being helped out by Gabriel, whom he purported not to know. "And you are?" the investigating officer asked, politely but piercingly. This man, unknown to Gabriel but clearly a friend of Indiana's, had a neat and competent look about him. He was shorter and thinner than a most of his fellow officers, but quick and intelligent.

Gabriel reached into his back pocket, wriggling free from the still-wet cloth a wallet and ID, handing it over. "Agent Gabriel Harker," the other read. "DEA."

* * *

I'm sorry to say that I must disappoint those counting on regular updates – real life is just too demanding for me to be able to commit to a regular posting schedule. But while it may take me awhile, I rarely drop any story – so don't despair! 


	3. Chapter 3

Indy didn't show his surprise. His encounters with the other man over the years had shown him that for all Gabriel considered himself as a hunter, the man was a protector more than anything. There were, also, only so many ways to hide in modern society. The best were sometimes the most obvious.

The archaeologist-turned-cop wrapped cold fingers around a hot mug of coffee as he listened, ignoring the lingering shivers of his hands. He hated having his home, his sanctuary, invaded. The breach of security shook him, and always had. He covered his loss of composure with a steaming mouthful of coffee. It was fresh. No surprises there – it was nearly six in the morning.

"– sudden increase in the Chicago area."

Indy abruptly tuned in to the conversation, and gathered from Aaron's neatly hidden aggravation that Gabriel had just revealed the reason behind his presence in Chicago.

"I was unaware that our problem had become important on the federal level." Polite as only an investigative officer could be. Indy hid a smile in his cup. Aaron Schaefer was less physically imposing than other members of the force, and he was sometimes underestimated because of it. Indy had made that mistake only once. Aaron had a quicksilver mind, and the two had grown to be friends after a month or so of stepping (and stomping, at times) on one another's toes.

He was so concentrated on the lovely sensation of warm caffeine sliding down his throat that he missed the hunter's answer. Nonetheless, it was easy to tell by the glint in his eyes that Aaron was in no way satisfied.

He nodded, accepting for the moment that it was all the answer he was going to get, and closed his notepad.

"Am I free to go?"

Indy blinked at the slight sarcasm he heard. Gabriel was irritated, but if he hadn't known the other so long, he never would have been able to tell. Hazel eyes smoldered, hands relaxed on the table. Ready to snatch for a weapon.

Indy was tired, cold, and wet. But so was the hunter; and Indy had no idea what it had cost him to rescue the cop from the bottom of the lake, and to heal him. On thinking on it, he decided that he didn't want to deal with this shit right now.

Pushing himself to his feet, he found the others' eyes on him. "I'm calling in sick today," he told Aaron.

The other snorted. "I'm surprised the Cap isn't already here. Don't worry about it, Henry."

Indy saw Gabriel's stifled smile at the use of his given name, and held back a growl. "I'm going to get some sleep."

"I recommend the Hilton," Aaron suggested, rising to his feet as well. "Two blocks down – you've seen it, no doubt. S'close. And cheap. Or as cheap as anything is in this town."

"See you tomorrow," Indy groaned, shifting in his wet clothes. Aaron threw him a sympathetic smile.

Gabriel remained sitting as the officer left, and then looked up at Indy, quirking a brow. "Henry?"

Indy groaned again, shooting the other a grumpy glare. "Yeah, well."

Gabriel shook his head, a smile on his lips. "Figures."

"What?" Indy asked, suspiciously. Gabriel pushed himself to his feet, casually leaning against the back of the booth. "What?"

Gabriel chuckled.

"What!"

Still grumbling under his breath, Indy followed Gabriel out the door. He followed the other in disgruntled silence, until he realized that the hunter was leading him to the hotel.

"You don't have to take me to the hotel," he said, feeling awkward suddenly. "I mean, I don't think anything is going to – well, to happen. Between here and there."

An amused smile twitched at Gabriel's lips. "I'm not," he told Indy, struggling to keep a straight face.

"Huh?"

"I'm staying there."

Indy's mouth dropped, and he snapped his jaw shut. "Oh," he commented unintelligently.

Gabriel snorted, turning the laugh into a cough at Indy's glare. "I have to sleep somewhere," he pointed out reasonably.

Indy followed him into the lobby, resolving to take the argument up once more – after he'd gotten himself a room, and a shower, and a meal. Briefly thankful for his credit line, he handed the damp plastic square to the girl behind the desk in the lobby, booking a room for the next week.

Gabriel raised a brow on seeing the number. "Right across from mine," he smiled slyly. Indy shot him a suspicious look. "What a coincidence."

"Right," the former archaeologist drawled.

His only answer was a mysterious grin. Indy rolled his eyes, unwilling to deal with it.

The hot shower was all he had fantasized about, and more. Finally warm, Indy put in a laundry order and another for food, wrapping himself in the provided robe to sprawl contentedly on the bed.

Flipping through the channels, he paused for a moment, hearing a familiar name.

"Detective Schaefer, one of the lead investigators into the crime, declined to comment. All that is known at this time is that the body of an unnamed minor was discovered by a late worker behind this pizza parlor."

The camera zoomed crazily close to the scene, bringing the reality of the cordoned alley; trash dumpster and the pitifully small form within a body bag into the room.

"This is so far the second child discovered murdered within the last four days. With such a deadly threat stalking the youth of Chicago, we must ask ourselves if the police are doing everything in their power to bring this killer to justice. This is Deborah Kuhn, reporting for -"

Indy glared at the woman, cutting her off mid-sentence with a final click. He tossed the remote onto the bedside table.

No matter how many times it happened, he could never get over his instinctive reaction to the media. They were just as relentless and vicious as academia had been. _Vultures._ He snarled at the now-quiescent set.

A noise at the door caught his attention. "Room service!" called a familiar voice. Too familiar, especially given the previous night's chaos.

"Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me."

Opening the door revealed none other than Gabriel.

"How did you convince the attendant to abandon the tray?" He really did want to know.

But the other just smiled, making his way inside.

Steam emerged as the lids lifted – hearty smells filled the room. Indy's mouth watered.

They managed to eat in relative peace, and Indy relaxed enough to ask what Gabriel had been doing for the past thirty years since they had seen one another last. In return for the hunter's story he told his own, of moving across America, seeing his dad every so often, and shifting from identity to identity. It never seemed quite as trying or painful in retrospect.

"So for most of the sixties you were -"

"Hiding," Indy confirmed. Thought back on several near-misses with what had passed for 'culture' at the time, and winced. An anthropologist's delight, watching culture evolve. Or not.

Gabriel laughed, interpreting his thoughts.

A restful moment dropped between them, until a question that had been plaguing him drove Indy to open his mouth.

"What are you doing here, really?"

He knew the hunter had saved him – the _how _of the matter boggled the mind, and he knew he wouldn't get an answer, so he didn't bother with that. Events simply seemed to . . . fall into place _around_ Gabriel, the world rearranging itself at a thought. It was strange.

The hunter gave him a second look, and Indy fought back a yawn. It might be ten in the morning, but he hadn't slept eight hours through in over a week . . .

"I'm investigating shipments that seem to be coming to the Chicago area," was the neutral reply.

"Shipments of?" Indy pushed a plate back onto the tray, settling back in his chair.

"Herbs," was the predictably vague response. "Spices."

He snorted. "You're showing your age," he needled the other. Hazel eyes met him evenly, with no trace of the humor he'd expected. "You're serious."

"Certain combinations of these . . . herbs can produce very potent drugs," Gabriel shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Indy had the wits to see it, despite his exhaustion.

"But you're not talking about methamphetamines, cocaine or heroine."

Gabriel shook his head. "These drugs are powerful, but they're not common. And they have ritual significance beyond recreational use." His face twisted at the last words.

And Indy's suspicions were confirmed. "Ritual use. Ancient drugs?" he didn't wait for the nod before going on. "What kind of ritual?"

"A Black Mass."

Indy raised a brow, unimpressed. "What's the deal with that, then? A few people get together, light some candles, pray to Satan -"

"You don't understand."

The thin, ragged tone startled him, and when sat up in surprise, Gabriel looked more old and tired than he'd ever seen the hunter. "A Black Mass is not just devotion to Lucifer. It is – evil, in action and thought. It has power. Power to-" he cut himself off.

"Okay," Indy said quietly. Anything that could put _that_ expression on the hunter's face – ancient and implacable, he'd never had that gaze leveled against him. He couldn't quite pity the fools who had, all unknowingly, stirred this anger. "But what does this have to do with my case?" He'd had no confirmation of this, had no clue to suspect the two were even linked, but Gabriel's presence was hint enough.

The strained look, hiding in the lines around hazel eyes, intensified. "I need the autopsy results of the chemical analyses for the two children in the serial killings you've been investigating."

Blood tests. Drugs. Dead children.

The memory of the young girl, a baby really, the marks of force and sex on her body, the needle-marks vividly bright, and the hole where her heart had been . . . And the strange look of betrayal in dead brown eyes. His stomach clenched.

Indy felt lightheaded. "A Black Mass?" he whispered. He'd never thought – never known that – After all, the rumors –

And with sudden understanding, he knew why. _Or course the world would deny it_, a cynical voice whispered. _Of course such things would be reviled, ignored, relegated to the place of horrid stories. No one would want to think the nightmares were true._

Gabriel nodded. "Yes."

He didn't want to know. But ignorance was the leading cause of death in the world. "Tell me."

The hunter began by telling a story. One of men, willfully walking away from the light and into the darkness, using bodies and minds as the ultimate tools to commit unspeakable crimes. Not only kidnapping and murder, but rape and violation of all innocence and goodness they found. And that was only so that they could open a door. One that was thrown wider by the willful shedding of innocent lives. "It is not a ritual without purpose, though many would see it that way."

Few, after all, could fathom what was _really_ going on.

And even with everything the hunter had told him, Indy had the distinct, uneasy feeling that he was still being shielded from the full truth. He might have demanded more of an answer, but his mind was overflowing with the horror of the past twelve hours. He couldn't hold any more, not now.

"One, every two days, until seven have been killed. Then, if we cannot stop them, the door will be open. And then -"

Two children dead. No more. _No more!_

And he didn't want to think that it was their very innocence that would get them killed.

There was very little time.


	4. Chapter 4

Indy scraped hands across his face, and stared at the ceiling.

Three days.

Two more dead children, a boy and a girl.

His mind recoiled from the faces, focusing on the facts.

Same killer – same means of death and probably the same murder weapon, from what the medical examiners could claim. Same . . . indications of –

_Don't be afraid of it. It's just - _And another part of his mind warred with the voice of reason. _Only a fool wouldn't be afraid! What they did to those kids –_

More and more sadistic each time. Oh, the needle marks he looked for and counted, now. The fact that such small children were sexually active – _raped_ – no longer made him quite so ill. He was horrified to think he might be getting used to seeing it.

It was the – the _other_ marks that still had the power to catch him unaware.

Marks of chains. Manacles, collars. Strange patterns carved into dead flesh. And in the wide eyes of each, stolen innocence.

Indy swallowed, determined to keep his lunch where he'd put it.

Death was harsh, but all the more so when unexpected. And the killer – the killer _reveled_ in these deaths. As their confidence grew, so did their brutality. The blood was – god, it was everywhere.

And they had almost no leads. No alerts on federal databases; no indications of previous patterns, or any escapees who might have fled to the area. Just a new psychopath, who had mothers clutching their children close under wary watch.

He'd seen the hunter track evil, once. But thick as this thread of malevolence was, it was lost in a city so large. Gabriel could only tell him that it was closer than it had any right to be.

So he went through the normal channels. But the streets were too quiet. Even the _mafiosa _were wary and silent. He could find nothing. _It doesn't make sense! All this – and _no one's_ heard anything!_

He'd been teamed with the man masquerading as a DEA agent, trying to pin down the shipments of herbs – each of which went somewhere different, was divided and distributed and disappeared – and brought back together, they were certain, at the final location.

Their opponents were clever, and practiced. And by the carelessness and deliberation – God, they'd left the last kid on his own front yard! – they were casually cruel.

_Tired hazel eyes met his, the body of the eight-year-old boy between them. "Every death draws them further from humanity."_

Indy shuddered at the memory. "Anything?"

Fingers sifted dark strands. "Nothing," Gabriel sighed. Not that either of them had expected anything different, sorting through files and computer databases, comparing the scenes and searching for a pattern.

"The only trend I can see is that the victims are progressively younger," Indy offered. He pressed at an ache resting behind his temples.

"Yeah."

A few more minutes of shuffling papers, and the man across from him flipped the file onto the table in irritation. Chair legs scratched across linoleum.

"Where are you going?"

"Come on."

Indy scrambled to his feet, barely catching the door before it slammed. "Wait a minute!"

The broad back didn't even slow down. Swearing under his breath, Indy grabbed for his leather jacket. "Yeah," he snarled back at Schaefer's smirk as he hastened past the man's desk. "Gabe, hold it!"

The car was running, and waiting, when he burst into the parking lot. He'd barely managed to get the door shut before they were backing out. By the time he had his seatbelt on, they'd reached a main throughway leading out to the north branch of the Chicago River. "Where are we going?"

"Crime scene."

Indy didn't bother asking which one. Any of them would have been too much; he had no desire to revisit any of those places.

_"Oh – my – my baby -"_

_Mrs. Edna Hewitt had screamed on finding her son laid out on the grass in front of her home. Fifteen minutes and a 911 call had let the reality sink in, let the tears come. A girl no older than five clutched her leg, staring with wide eyes. _

Maybe it was time for Henry Jones to retire, and move on. He'd been doing what he could for years, but – it wore on him.

Those were thoughts for another time.

"I still don't understand why they were so sure I knew something about what was going on," Indy commented. He half-wished there was a physical reason for the white knuckles clutching the dashboard, but it was no good; Gabriel was a careful driver. _Admit it. You're afraid you won't find anything until the next body. _

Speaking would make it so. So he wouldn't say anything.

"Well, we have that advantage, at least."

"What?" Indy snapped.

Gabriel spared a moment from the traffic to glance at him. So he hadn't been paying attention. So what.

"They think you're dead," he repeated patiently.

Indiana snorted. "With good reason. People don't generally float when they're tossed overboard with cinderblocks instead of a life preserver."

A grunt reached his ears. "We're here."

_Here_ was the side of a minor highway, the ditch had been cordoned off and the road blocked to everything but police traffic. This scene was still fresh, as it hadn't yet rained; so it was guarded by a two-cop rotation. No more was needed – the crime had already been committed, after all.

Indy shoved hands in his pockets, following the hunter. "I thought you said you couldn't track them," he murmured, too low for the on-duty uniforms to hear.

"I can't," Gabriel admitted quietly. "It's – saturating the air, everywhere. It thins out this way." _It_ being a pervasive darkness, described to him as a choking cloud of ill intent.

The two carefully circled the small, chalk-sprayed outline, moving toward the road. Fifteen feet or so from where they had parked, the hunter took a deep breath.

"You think this is where they unloaded."

Hazel eyes scanned the bent blades of grass, signs in gravel on the shoulder. "It's likely." There were no tire-tracks, but scuffmarks clearly showed where something had been dragged through roadside dust and gravel, into the brush and garbage littering the grassy divider.

Gabriel bent, frowning.

"What is it?"

Crouching, Indy saw the other reach out a latex-covered hand to lightly brush something hidden between blades of grass.

Glossy black, the skin broken and oozing on some; but three berries were whole, surprisingly untouched amid the clump that had been crushed. "These are non-native."

"What is it?" Botany had never been his strong suit. He might not be a vegetarian, but he could still hate plants.

"Deadly nightshade."

_That_ he knew about; poisons were important in history, for their practical uses. But what the hell was it doing here? _Evidence. More evidence. More pieces of a puzzle that I wish I could make sense of!_ Tracking the Holy Grail had been easier than this. "Bag 'em."

Moments of silence, as they moved slowly over the ground, looking for any trace of a fallen hint that might lead them to the killers. Gabriel treaded soundlessly at his side, his concentration eerily unnerving.

"Anything?" One of the uniforms approached. He was the more solemn of the two; Indy understood. It was always worse when the victims were children. He held up the evidence bag, grimaced.

"We'll have to find out more back at the station."

With a nod, and quiet words of encouragement, the two got back in the car again. The drive back was mostly silent, broken only by comments and current conditions on the police radio.

When they found the head detective for the case, he was lounging in his office. A bottle of aspirin and a cup of coffee told the reason for the abandonment of the reports, papers, and interviews neatly arranged on the desk. A pot of java filled itself, bubbling merrily, off to the side. Indy rolled his eyes at the oft-stereotyped donut box perched, half-empty, on a cold printer.

He leant against the doorframe, peering in. "Bum."

Schaefer blinked, sitting up from the inelegant slouch that had him spilling out of his chair and against the wall. "Oh, you again."

"Yep." Officer Jones moved into the room, taking the only chair and leaving the hunter to prop up the wall just inside the door.

"Where were you?" Aaron reached for the coffee, blinking. He'd been putting in awful hours, trying to solve this one.

"Finished looking over the case files," Indy shrugged. "Then we went out to the Rundell scene, see if we could pick up anything more a second time around."

Coffee mug impacted the table with a soft _clank_. "And did you?"

"Found these." Indy handed the evidence bag over to the detective, who stared thoughtfully at the small black berries. Then he marched over to the coffeemaker and selected a zebra-striped mug from Aaron's collection.

"Belladonna?"

Indy blinked in surprise. "How'd you know?"

Schaefer extended the folder he'd been flipping through before they entered. "Toxicology report's in."

Indy scanned the page, sipping the hot brew. "This – doesn't make any sense."

"Let me see it."

He handed it off to Gabriel. The hunter's face tightened. "It's not what I had expected."

"You think there's something missing?"

Gabriel shrugged, pulling out his own notes. Hazel eyes were unreadable. "I was tracking shipments of Goat Weed and LSD to this area, among others."

"Goat Weed?" A wealth of carefully construed derision in that tone.

Hazel eyes reflected exasperation. "It's not something normally purchased in bulk."

"You can say that again," Indy breathed, staring at the penciled reminders in the margins. _Ten kilos?_

"What else were you tracking?" Aaron reached for the hunter's written report. Indiana yielded it, turning his attention to Gabriel.

"Hallucinogens and barbiturates, mostly. Some of these," he held up the ToxRep. "Heroin, cannabis, deadly nightshade and hemlock."

"And soot and pork fat and wolfsbane," Schaefer snorted. He chewed thoughtfully, speaking around a mouthful of sugar and dough. "Eye of newt and toe of frog? _'Double, double, toil and trouble. Fire burn and cauldron bubble'_," he intoned. Indy choked on a mouthful of coffee, trying not to laugh.

"Quite likely."

Not an ounce of humor in that voice. Indiana stared, swiping at black stains on his jeans. "Gabe?"

"Flying ointment." A furrow between dark brows. "Except for the cannabis."

"What's that?" Aaron couldn't hide his interest.

"Psychoactive herb," Gabriel retorted. He leant against the table, arms folded and eyes thoughtful. "Believed to have aphrodisiac properties."

That explained more than it didn't. They still didn't have a match on the semen samples. More disturbingly, the medical examiner reported that there was DNA from at least five different individuals. He didn't even want to _think_ about what that meant. "Cannabis, huh?"

Gabriel's answer was soft. "Yeah."

The toxicology was only underscoring what they didn't know.

"What's with the flying ointment?" Aaron asked, with the tone of a man who just _knew_ he was going to regret opening his mouth.

"Sixteenth century potions that witches used to fly on broomsticks. Or so it's believed. How they were used is debatable; ingested, rubbed on the skin, who knows?" Indy absently reached for the file again. "There's even a rumor that the ointment was on a stick inserted into the vagina, but there's no credibility to the claim."

"How the hell do you _know_ that?" Aaron was giving him a strange look.

"Took a course in college," Indy shrugged. _Yeah. About twenty of them. But as that was about eighty years ago – well. History's the one thing that doesn't change. It just grows._

Gabriel was nodding. "And with the heroin – that makes sense."

"Excuse me?" Aaron asked blankly. His feet fell off the desk with a _thud_. "You want to explain that?"

Indiana winced. Tensions between the cops and federal agencies couldn't be shoved under the rug. Gabriel had been managing just fine up to this point, but there had been a bit of resentment.

And they were all sick and tired of failing to solve this case. Aaron, the lead detective, not least of all.

The hunter remained unruffled. "Belladonna's a toxin," he said bluntly. "The berries we found were more than enough to lay out a child, or even a grown man. Poppy is a chemical counter that ameliorates most of the effects of nightshade. Poppy gives opium, morphine, and -"

"Heroin," Schaefer sighed.

"Exactly."


	5. Chapter 5

Time was running out.

Indy slouched over the desk, staring unenthusiastically at the report in front of him. Coroner's account of the fifth child; the youngest yet, at age seven.

_No. No more._

The clock hands pointed accusingly at single digits – which would have been fine, if time hadn't been sucked away, leaving him exhausted in the police station far past midnight. And alone, except for the graveyard shift. Aaron, who had been working the longest hours of them all, had gone home hours ago on the Captain's order.

As for the hunter. . . Indy wasn't sure where Gabriel had gone.

They'd found the last body stuffed under some bushes, in the far reaches of Burnham Park. Little for his age, Ganesh Kumar had been found half-hidden by a curious jogger. The man had promptly vomited, luckily a good distance from the immediate scene, before using his cell phone to call 911.

"_What?" he hissed. "What is it?"_

_Ancient eyes peered out at him from youthful features. Gabriel looked _through_ him; just for a moment, but long enough for Indiana to see that he had found something._

The trail hadn't been tangible. With Gabriel, it rarely was and even more rarely needed to be.

Indy shook his head, ignoring cold coffee at his hand. The police needed a solid trail of evidence. So did the courts. But an uneasy tickle in the back of his mind made him wonder if Gabriel would even bother with trivialities like mortal legalities. _And to him, they are trivial._

Officer Jones blinked once more, scrubbing weary hands down his face. Time was pouring against him; it was too late for these kinds of thoughts. He needed to sleep.

"Heading home, Jones?"

One of the late-shift guys. Indy didn't know his name, but then the guy was probably new. Night-shift was a whole other realm. They got the worst calls, in a way. If a crime was going to be committed at midnight, it was on a completely different scale than the petty villainies people thought were safe for daylight. Some evils could only be entrusted to the darkness.

"Yeah. Such as it is."

The blue-clad officer gave him a wry grin. All of the station had heard about his apartment being trashed; three-fourths had connected it with the serial case that was stumping them all. But as to _why_ . . . Indiana could only guess.

The summer's only chill came to life after midnight. Indy shivered in the breeze, crossing through the line of black-and-whites sleeping in the first rows, back through the parking lot to where his beat-up pickup truck rested.

He was fumbling with the keys for his door when a far-off sound caught his attention. Ridged metal slid, turned, and the door opened under his fingers. Indy paused, tilting his head to listen. _Sirens. _Getting closer.

The police car skidded into the lot, flashing red and blue and roaring into the night. Headlights blinded him, as he moved to slide into his car. His pulse thudded, as the black-and-white _skreeked_ to a stop inches away.

Indy twisted, looking in through the window, and the pace of his heart found normality again. "Schaefer!" he growled, shoving the blast of fear and adrenaline down. "What the hell are you doing?"

The man shrugged. "Got a few hours of sleep. Came back to do a quick patrol. Call came in. 10-65, juvenile."

Blue eyes widened. "Kidnapping?"

The other man nodded. "Grace Chapel Church. Can't go out without two – you coming?"

Indy threw himself into the seat, wrestling with the seatbelt as Aaron hit the gas. "You call for backup?"

"Yeah. Got a 10-4 on car 76, with Trigg and Yardley. We're 10-40 on the approach." With that, the other man slammed off lights and siren. They ran dark and silent up the street, powering past a few late-night travelers and ignoring the ignominious activities that at any other time would have had them out and reading Mirandas. But in the face of a final, solid lead on the serial kidnappings and killings, the drug-pushers and occasional hooker could wait.

Indy checked his holster, hidden under his jacket. Schaefer glanced over, taking his eyes off the road. Indy cringed back in his seat as they swerved too-near an eighteen-wheeler.

"You set?"

"Yeah. You? Geez, watch the road!"

Schaefer grinned at his friend, huddled in the passenger seat. "I am."

The other grumbled under his breath, lapsing into silence as the church came into sight.

"It's dark," he murmured. _Too dark. Perfect for hiding anything – but there's no sign of anyone here._ He spotted the empty police car parked across the street; felt a frown carve itself into existence on his face. "There's the 76. Where're Trigg and Yardley?"

Aaron swore. "They must have gone in without backup. C'mon."

"What? Where -" The other officer was gone, the driver's door closing softly. Indy shoved his own door open. "We should call for backup!" he hissed.

Schaefer threw him an irritated look. "We _are_ the backup!"

Indy cursed, following his partner as the younger man slipped through the shadows toward the Church. _This is ridiculous. _He mightbe a proponent of the 'lone wolf' style of action, but he'd never gone in completely alone, even if his backup was just Marcus. The man had usually been overmatched, but just as often was underestimated.

The church doors gave way silently. Indy spared a moment to thank whoever was conscientious of the fact that squeaky hinges during mass wasn't exactly the epitome of dignity, and oiled accordingly.

He couldn't see Aaron – never a good thing. _Dammit, I was right behind him!_ The last thing he wanted was to shoot his partner by accident. Or get shot by him.

Moving through the pews, he kept to the shadows. There was a series of flickering candles at the base of a marble Mary, lit in remembrance of the dead. Perhaps it was just a coincidence that there were five lit candles at the feet of the Mother of God, who cared for children.

A sixth flame flared to light, in the hot flash of a lighting match. Indy slunk closer; he could hear nothing from whoever was lingering in the Church so late at night. A pale hand descended into view; fire found its match in the redness of the cloth covering the wrist and arm of the unseen person.

A sound out of place – a soft scuff, of shoe leather over stone. Indiana tensed. Behind –

Blackness stole time.

_Oh, crap. Not again._ The first thoughts that put themselves together in his brain, as he stuffed fuzziness aside, were chagrined. It had been a recently learned lesson that passing out, however involuntary, was never a good idea. You invariably woke up in worse straits than when you were last awake.

This case was no different.

He tested the chains, getting his feet under him. His wrists and shoulders ached as he took his weight off them. _Dangling from the ceiling. Like a worm on a hook._

"You're awake."

To his disgust. Indy glared at the figure, taking his first good look around. He suppressed a shudder, but felt his eyes widen.

It was a common municipal church basement, used for public events. Mint green linoleum floor, a stage with a ratty curtain spanning the far wall. Various fold-out chairs and tables were neatly stacked along the edges of the room. Windows near the ceiling looked out on the ground level, he assumed – they were all covered.

That was what it had been; a site for Scout meetings, blood drives, and the soup-kitchen efforts of the diocese. Innocuous. Innocent.

Now . . . .

Someone had done their best to turn it into a medieval nightmare of blood and burning candles. Candelabras of black cast-iron were scattered about the floor, lending flickering illumination to the room. Wax, in black, red and cream dripped from reaching iron arms.

_Oh, God – is that –_

His hands had been manacled to a length of chain that was looped through a hook in the ceiling. He might be able to get it off – but not without attracting attention. All he could be thankful for now was that he was outside the pentacle painted in blood, chalk, and holy water that was the central focus of the room.

Within which was a low obsidian slab, black and glossy, with its shine dulled by ominous and familiar brown streaks.

Indy returned his attention to the crimson-cowled figure before him. All he could make out of the person swathed within the ruby silk was thin lips and a pale chin. The hood hid any hint of hair or eyes. And for now, the room held only the two of them.

"Like what you see?"

Indy snorted. "Are you sure you're not an extra in a Hollywood horror flick? 'Cause it sure as hell looks like it to me."

The man – for Indiana was _sure_ it was, and _sure_ that he had heard that voice before – only laughed. "Hell. Funny you should mention that."

And as he opened his mouth to spit out _something_, definitely scathing and probably stupid, he was instantly gagged – as if the man had _known_ he couldn't let it lie, had _known_ he had to speak.

"Can't have you interrupting the proceedings, can we, Officer Jones?" The lips smirked at him. "I still don't know how you survived your little swim, but I have my suspicions . . . and you _will_ tell me. But for now, I have more important matters to attend to."

A hundred profane and uncomplimentary terms flooded Indy's mind; unable to voice them, he settled for a low growl rumbling in the back of his throat. The red cowl chuckled, and then dismissed him.

Indy watched as the man moved to the wall, where one of the multi-purpose tables had been unfolded. On it sat a book, bound in some strange material that he couldn't make out from where he was, containers, several candles, and daggers – made of gold and obsidian. And one more thing, crackling, and spitting out terse dispatcher's voices.

Indy froze. _My radio._

He'd thought it lost in the Lake – sunk in the depths meant to be his grave. He'd never realized that he hadn't had it on him in the trunk of the car, or on the boat. _They've been keeping track of everything._

They couldn't know what had happened in the station, how far the investigation had gone; but they knew how long they had to hide the bodies and disappear, and how far behind them the police were. Who was called to the scenes, how procedure had altered to fit the nature of the crimes.

And now, they knew how much time they had for their next killing, as Indy listened to the dispatcher's report of a drive-by shooting and gang fight. On the other side of the precinct.

_Damn._

The man picked up a golden canister, then, and moved to the doors. Across the threshold of each, he drew a thick line of herbs poured from the cylindrical container in his hand, followed by sigils in a strange script of flowing marks and slashes. Then, he drew a larger circle with the herbs; one that encompassed the pentacle, Indiana, and the table as well as select candelabras and most of the room.

When the two edges of the circle met, the man stood straight, closing the canister with a hum of pleasure. He turned to the cop then, lowering his hood to face the chained man fully.

A noise of shocked disbelief was swallowed by the gag.

Aaron Schaefer tucked his hands into the large sleeves of his red robe, and eyed Indiana with clear distaste. The tinge of intent curiosity which lingered behind that emotion disturbed the bound man much more than the now-plain maliciousness on familiar features.

"Goat Weed," he said with smug satisfaction. "Also called Klamath Weed, or St. John's Wort. We are protected, now," came the all-too-familiar voice. "And we have a little time. So I will remove your gag. And you will tell me everything you know about the Holy Grail."

Indiana didn't have to fake his shock. _How does he know that –_ He'd buried every trace he could find of his actions and quest during the Second World War, with his father's help. He'd known that the news had traveled by word of mouth – but the two Jonses had passed the trip off as a failed lark, a whim, a vacation, nothing more. The documents had been destroyed; pictures, notes, everything.

But if the child-killers wanted the Holy Grail . . . The hunter's words, of the Black Mass opening a door that would swallow the world in hellfire and suffering, pounded through his brain.

_"Gabriel!" _He threw the mental shout to the winds, hoping and praying for a quick answer. The man who had purported to be his friend, draped in red silk and the blood of innocents, drew closer. _"Gabriel!"_

Time slipped by, dripping through his grasp.

But there was no response.


	6. Chapter 6

Indy glared.

"You will tell me what I need to know."

The gag came off, then, leaving his mouth dry. He licked his lips, carefully. Then spat in Aaron's face, with all the venom he could muster. "You son of a -"

Cloth whipped across and down, leaving a stinging line. But it was Aaron's next words that silenced him.

"Language, Henry. You wouldn't want to set a bad example."

The red robe circled him.

Indy struggled with his hatred, breathing hard. And looking, all the while, for an escape. For oversights. For anything he could use, if an opportunity came to grab the kid and run.

"You know, I saw something wrong with your file right off." The supercilious tone slithered through the air. "It cost me a good bit of time, but I finally managed to break through the background you constructed."

"Right. At least now I know where all that heroin went," he managed.

Schaefer faced him, expression cold. As if something had been suddenly brought to his attention. "Harker. Don't worry, he'll be dealt with soon enough."

They didn't know. They might have found out about him, but there was no way they knew about Gabriel. _And there's nothing they can do to stop him._ But _where_ was he!

"A little suspicious if the two of us turn up dead," he snarled back.

Indiana didn't like the vicious smile wreathing Schaefer's face. "Who says they'll ever know?"

And his mind was thrown back to the most expedient means of disposal available to those who worked in Chicago. It was ludicrous, after all, to think of dragging one of the Great Lakes.

"Good job hiding two missing men from the government and the station."

The quicksilver mind knew him, though. And was fully turned against him. Aaron wandered to the table, and the objects on it, as he spoke. "Agent Harker will have a sudden lead on his case, elsewhere. And after a suitable amount of time, official notification of his absence will come through. You know how slow the government is. As for you . . ." Schaefer toyed idly with a dagger. "A family emergency, out of state. Followed by a tragic accident."

And it was all plausible enough to actually work. _Bastard._

He was saved from groping blindly for some thing suitable to throw back at his 'friend' by the man's sudden distraction. But when he saw what had abruptly captured Aaron's attention, he wished the clock turned back.

More figures, in red robes. Eight more. With the unconscious Trigg and Yardly trussed up tightly behind them.

"So much for backup," he heard Aaron mutter, wicked glee in each syllable. "Take them out to the police car," he ordered. "Lock them in the back. We _won't_ be interrupted."

Something shifted, in the corner of Indy's eye. Without looking, he tried to see what it was – and caught a glimpse, no more, of a familiar form ducking back behind the ratty stage curtain.

Hope, treacherous and slippery, rose up within him.

Only to die, as they brought out the child.

"What did you do to her?" Indy demanded. Little, and limp, with curly black hair and pale skin, she was no more than seven. Probably younger. And her breath came shallowly, eyes wide and unseeing.

They ignored him, no matter how loudly he cursed them.

Red robes returned; the child was laid on the obsidian alter, limbs spread. They paid him no attention, even as he hurled every invective he could think of at them.

The red robes simply began wandering through the room, extinguishing candles. Writing on the floor in chalk, and chanting lowly all the while.

Aaron, finally, directed his attention toward the chained policeman. "This is your last chance." Those eyes, heartless and calm, skewered him. "Tell me everything you know about the Holy Grail, and I'll let you go."

Indy snorted. "With what I've seen? Right. Sure. Let the kid go, and we have a deal."

Aaron _tsk_ed, playing with the obsidian knife. Volcanic glass shimmered in the half-light, twirled through absent-minded fingers. Indy hoped that he slipped, and lost a digit to the razored edge. "It would be easy enough to find another, but we are short on time. I will ask you again, Indiana Jones, to tell me everything you know about the Holy Grail."

He didn't even bother to look at the other man. Instead, he watched as the other red robes laid the little girl out on the altar. One held a needle, carefully measuring out a precise amount of heroin. Another began to pull at her clothing. The dagger's tip dug into his chin, yanking his attention back; a bloody line sliced down his chest. Indy clenched his lips, and glared.

"So. It is powerful enough that it is worth dying for," Schaefer breathed, barely controlling a smile.

"Go to hell," he snarled.

Aaron threw back his head, laughing at that. "Oh, I surely hope so."

_Dammit Gabriel! There's no time!_ Indy thought frantically, hoping against hope that the other could somehow hear him. The little girl was nowhere near consciousness; lost in a haze of drugs. Aaron was speaking to him, but he gave the man no attention as he searched the shadows, looking for something, anything.

He nearly missed it, but when his eyes registered the movement, he threw himself into action. Gabriel sped from the stage, angling toward the altar.

"What -"

Indy hauled upward on his chains, kicking out and taking Aaron's legs from under him. The heel of his boot impacted the other's face as Schaefer staggered to his knees; a _crunch_ of cartilage and blood, and the obsidian knife dropped to linoleum-sheathed concrete, shattering into glassy shards.

But three red robes were on him, suddenly, wrestling him and beating him. Indy glared up through the blows, searching for his backup.

A low laugh reached him, growing until it stilled the motion of the men nearby and filled the room. When he saw what Aaron found so humorous, his blood ran cold.

Gabriel was motionless outside the barrier drawn in herbs and chalk. The man stood, glaring fury at them all, and unable to pass. Schaefer moved closer, to just the other side of the line. _Hit him,_ Indy thought frantically. _Just reach out and – it's just a line!_

"A warding line with the power of Lucifer," Aaron murmured, speculative and thinking aloud. "Any mortal man could pass; no matter the confessions and baptismal rites, no one is free from sin. But _you_. . ."

Gabriel lunged for him.

A shimmering wall of power, glowing ruby and shadow, slammed up between them. Aaron stood unflinching as the other man reeled back, thrown to the ground by the force of that shield. "You are not mortal," Aaron breathed, eyes alight with menacing knowledge.

Indy was numb. This couldn't be happening –

Gabriel glared at Schaefer, but didn't bother responding.

"The power of our Lord denies you!" The red robes were whispering to one another urgently. Aaron paid them no mind. "Even you – whoever you are – are no match for the Light-Bringer's power!"

And the book bound in human skin was brought to him. The red-robed man flipped through the pages as Gabriel regained his feet. Indy surged against those holding him, but no matter their shock, the hands gripping him did not loosen.

Words filled the room, echoing hollowly. Though the voice was familiar, the tongue was not. It reminded him of the most beautiful sound he had ever heard, echoing through a crescent canyon in the palest dawn light – only perverted and twisted beyond recognition. Yet the power rang discordantly true through the air.

And it struck at his very heart, a mortal blow that set his ears to ringing and stole the breath out of his lungs.

In his fading vision, he saw Gabriel hurl his body once more against the barrier. Light flared, darkly crimson, and died. Once, twice, thrice more it illuminated the room; but Indiana no longer had strength to do anything but hang in his chains. Whether the drug they were smearing on his skin, or the words still tumbling from the traitor's lips was the cause, his limbs would not move.

But he could see everything.

He watched as, secure in their protections, the red-robed men turned their backs on the hunter barred from the small piece of hell they had risen to earth. He could only watch, the chanting and precise movements of the ritual hazed by the drug seeping through his skin. Time slipped away from him –

And when they began the final violation, he couldn't bear to look.

But once his eyes were closed, the fight was a losing battle against unconsciousness, against the drug –

An explosion rocked the room, light flaring in colors of blood and death against closed eyelids. He was barely aware of dropping as the chains were torn from the ceiling; Indy felt the impact with linoleum distantly, lost in the havoc played on him by confused senses.

Time came back to him, in a rush of warmth and light so at odds with the past hours, that it was like unto the first breath taken by a man saved from drowning. He sat up.

"What the hell happened to you?"

Gabriel ignored the question, and the bloodsmears on his shirt. "Are you alright?"

"I'll live." He felt – better than he had in hours. Until he took a good look around, and saw the still, youthful form haphazard on the basement floor. "They got away." And they were getting careless, to leave their victim at the scene. Unless they thought they could get away with it. _No witnesses._ Looking closely, he saw the bullet holes in the hunter's shirt; directly over the heart.

"They needed to stop me for awhile," Gabriel said tightly. "They succeeded."

"How the hell did they keep you out in the first place?" Indy was more confused than angry.

It was a long moment before the hunter answered. "They called upon a power I had not expected them to," he said after a long moment.

"The Light-Bringer. . ." And he felt a shudder tear through him as his mind cleared enough for connections to be made.

Gabriel's gaze was locked on the dead girl. "The Morning Star was once foremost among my Father's children," he said quietly. "Until he turned against us all, mustering power and allies . . . He fell. And when he did, what he had wrought of himself was a twisting of everything pure and good in the world. But he did not lose power."

_Oh, shit! Oh, damn, oh -_

"Exactly," the hunter nodded. "I've called for backup. They should be here soon."

"To find another body," he said dully. Close – they had been so close to saving that little girl. And now, those bastards were one step closer to opening a door to hell that would swallow the world. He couldn't hold in the anger anymore. "_How_ did this happen? I thought you – I thought -" he couldn't say it, but that didn't matter.

Indy staggered to his feet, wrenching away from Gabriel's steadying grip. "You're the Left Hand of God," he hissed, barely even able to say the words. _"How could you not stop this!"_

Gabriel reached out a hand – he shoved himself away. "No!" He had to know. "Tell me why this happened, Gabriel!"

"This happened," the hunter said with familiar anger, "because men did not wait to protect themselves before selling their souls to the Morning Star. Because they were so willing, so _eager_, for any kind of power that they threw themselves wholeheartedly at his feet!" Running a hand through long hair, Gabriel heaved a sigh. "I have seen it before. Dozens upon dozens of times – but none of those was even half as reckless as Aaron Schaefer and his accomplices. They should _not_ have this power!"

"But they do," Indy snapped. He flung a hand toward the body of the girl on the floor. "They do, and she is _dead_."

When he spoke, there was a frozen certainty to the words that rekindled Indy's flagging faith, even as it chilled him. "It will not happen again."

* * *

To all my readers: I apologize for the delay. I had originally really intended to have this chapter out soon after the last one, but it was surprisingly hard to write. Thanks so much to the UU chat gang, and mostly Sol, for helping me get this started, and critiquing me on my 'torture' scene. hugs everyone 


	7. Chapter 7

"We have a day."

Indy took a breath, and pulled on a clean shirt. "What are we going to do?"

They knew why, what, who, and even when. But they didn't know _where_ Schaefer would strike. And news bulletins about child predators aside, all it took was one moment of a parent's inattention – and there would be nothing they could do but respond to the 911-dispatcher's distress call.

Gabriel rounded a corner in the station's lockers, toweling wet locks dry. "Prepare."

And it was all they _could_ do. Reports were given, the station alerted to the betrayal of one of their own. Toxicology screens of the substance on Indy's skin and clothes, and an autopsy and identification of the little girl. Time, when they needed it to be sticky and viscous, insisted on flowing liquidly from them; it was taken by the investigation, hurried as much as they dared.

Evidence was bagged and labeled, analyses put on top priority. With the full force of the station's anger aimed at the traitor, they had everything necessary for the lawyers to build an impregnable case against Aaron Schaefer and his cohorts. The only thing they needed was the perp, in cuffs and behind bars. But the only thing they could do was wait for the call to come in. It was an ugly fact, but Chicago was a large city. And the precinct was small, with too few cops for the crimes being committed already. The serial killings had shifts stretched to their limits.

And then they had learned that one of their own had violated the oaths they held dear – to protect and serve. The station fairly buzzed with anger – and they were more shorthanded than ever.

_It will happen today._

Indy swirled the coffee against styrofoam, and set it on his desk. The last twelve hours had been a mess of work and sick anticipation.

"It's eight hours old." One of the dayshift officers in on-duty blues scowled at his mug, and took a grimacing swallow. "Ugh."

A sympathetic scowl on his face, Indy set the flimsy cup as far out of reach as possible, without putting it at risk of falling off the table. Which, at this point, could only be counted a good thing. "Heard anything?"

Gabriel, walking in the room, shook his head. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Not yet." The hunter was wound tight as any of them, tense with the energy of useless waiting.

"You're sure he'll make a move today?" The officer was the only one in the bullpen with them; his shift was over soon. Their shift didn't end until Schaefer was caught.

"Yes," Gabriel said tersely. The hunter had settled himself against the wall, but his attention hadn't been wholly on the here and now for . . . hours. Indy might have thought the days without sleep were getting to him, if there hadn't been something strange in his manner for the past thirty-six hours. Something much more than missed sleep could account for. He didn't know _what_, precisely – but it made his hair prickle nonetheless.

"It's the pattern," he explained, for the benefit of the skeptical officer. "Without fail, he's snatched a kid every forty-eight hours. He's not done."

"How do you know he just won't pull up and disappear?"

A valid question. Indy stiffened, and leveled a glare at the uniform. It might be a good point, but he hadn't had enough coffee to tolerate twenty questions from some –

Gabriel leveled a gaze on the uniform that had the cop gulping. "Because he told us."

The man paled. "_You _were the ones -" Something in the hunter's eyes pulled him up short; the officer muttered an excuse and slipped away.

Indiana raised a brow, and decided to grab the bull by the horns. "What's gotten into you lately?"

Gabriel folded his arms across his chest, and shot Indy an exasperated glare. The archaeologist-turned-cop blinked as silver flashed out at him; and then hazel eyes reflected familiar gold. _What the hell was that?_

"Have you been able to narrow down possibilities?" A hand gestured toward the map spread and pin-stabbed to the table.

"Um, a few." Indy ran disconcerted fingers through short brown strands, distracted. "He hasn't picked up any kid from the same place twice, but the locations are scattered. There's no pattern, but -" he frowned at the paper, looking at the six green pins there. These marked where the children had been found. The corresponding blue pins showed where they had been taken from. And they interspersed almost evenly on the map, in a circle.

Gabriel made a satisfied noise, grabbing a pen.

"What are you -"

And on the map appeared two pentacles, one connecting green pins and another the blue, enclosed in the same circle. "Doubtless he would want to be completely unpredictable in his attacks," Gabriel said grimly. "But there is always a _reason_ behind his actions. The pentacles protect him."

"And he'll be at the center." Indy lifted grey eyes to hazel, not thinking to question how he knew.

The hunter grimaced. "Yes."

"But -" _It's too obvious._

"It is," the hunter agreed with the unspoken thought. "But - for what they are doing, certain steps must be taken. Certain protections must be made. It _has_ to be done - and Schaefer knew it." The pen inscribed a circle around the most likely place that they would find the traitor. "He had enough power to stop me before; he'll be even stronger now that the pentacles are complete."

"Then what are we going to do?" Indy hissed, fist slamming onto the table. It wasn't even about the gateway Aaron was trying to open, though that would be a greater problem than any he'd ever faced if they failed. No. It was about the small child he would kill to do it. _I will not let that happen again! _

Hazel eyes met his, glinting strangely in the artificial light of the station. Not the golden glow Indy halfway expected; this was harsher. Harder, even, than he'd thought the Messenger could be. "He will be stopped."

"I hope so." In light of the other night's disaster, there was no reason for him to believe. His faith, always a little rough around the edges, had been given a good jolt ever time he'd met up with the hunter in the past years. This time was no exception – and three days ago, it hadn't been for the better. But he found himself wanting to believe nonetheless. Indy tossed the styrofoam cup away. "Let's go."

When they reached the spot on the map, they found a street of residences, small and clean despite the low-income neighborhood. Indy parked the car, pocketed the keys, and looked to the hunter.

Gabriel's expression was distant. "This way."

He'd seen the hunter track before, and it piqued his curiosity every time. It was as if he followed a trail that was scent wrapped in sight, and something no one else could sense. Gabriel's step never faltered, and he spoke lowly to the other as they tread concrete sidewalk. "The trail leads to the third house up ahead on the left. Don't stop. Walk past it; then we'll circle around, and try to see if anyone lives there."

"Do you think they've got a kid already?" Indy asked urgently.

Gabriel lifted a brow, considering. "Probably not," he said at last. "But I can't be sure."

"Hurry it up, then."

A short fence and some bushes allowed them to slink between two houses further down, and provided decent cover back towards the target house. It was small, white with blue shutters and pink rhododendrons. The plants were large, and one came very close to the door leading out to a tiny, well-kept backyard. It was the work of half a minute to jimmy the lock open.

"No one's home," Indy murmured, glancing at sheet-covered furniture, and the pile of mail strewn at the front door. Not only that, but the air was thick and still, though the dust had been disturbed. Recently.

Gabriel lifted a bill, glanced at the name, and let out a short breath in realization. "Schaefer."

Indy glanced at the name, and frowned. "But I've been to his house -"

"It's not his first name," Gabriel pointed out. "Lisa. His sister? Wife?"

"Ex-wife. Aaron never had anything good to say about her, but I never met her. He told me she moved to Kentucky."

Footsteps sounded in the next room; Gabriel's voice filtered back to him. "Kentucky?"

"It wasn't for the fried chicken, that's for sure." The archaeologist in him could see clearer than the cop, sometimes. Refrigerator cleaned out, the entire place emptied. And a closet, recently filled with pristinely pressed red robes. Indy glanced at the silk. He'd plunge his hands into a tank of piranhas before touching those. "I hope she wasn't planning on coming back."

"Too late."

"What?"

"Take a look."

Indy left the closet as he'd found it, and moved into the living room. More sheets here, dust – and the curtains were drawn. But on the mantle was a frame. With an invitation inside.

_Yourself and family are invited _

_To attend the Funeral of _

_Lisa Schaefer_

_From her residence of 1025 S. Anwell St._

_Or the Lutheran Church _

_To proceed to Pleasant Grove Cemetery._

"Convenient for him," Gabriel murmured.

Indy stared. "You don't think -" A glance at the other's face made it clear that they both did. "Attic or basement?"

"Judging from the size of the house, the attic would be too small," Gabriel murmured, almost to himself.

"And basement it is," Indy sighed. _Again._ "Call for backup?"

"Already done." Gabriel brushed by him, searching for the stairs. They found them, hidden behind a door that had pretended to be a broom closet, just outside the small, laminated kitchen.

The lightswitch clearly illuminated memories he'd just as soon forget. On the concrete floor, swept meticulously clean, was the thick obsidian slab. The glassy rock was caked with blood, and other noxious substances. Here, in their asylum, the walls were painted with strange pictures and sigils. "Cuneiform."

Gabriel's mouth tightened. "Old Persian."

"How do you know that?" He could identify it, of course. The wedge-shaped marks were very distinct. But _reading_ it was another matter entirely.

Gabriel gave him a _look._ "But it's not all cuneiform," the hunter frowned, turning to the west wall. "Hieroglyphs."

"Runes," Indy agreed, glancing north. "And pictograms to the south."

"Fantastic," the hunter bit out.

"You know what it means?" Indy was more than a little wary. But it was better to keep his eyes on the strange writings, than to see the obsidian blades laid neatly around the altar. To see herbs and bundles dangling from the wooden beams above, and a collection of painted knucklebones that looked as if someone tried to foretell the future, sitting by a makeshift fire-pit not far from the stairs.

"Yes."

He waited in vain for an answer, before grunting, "Has to be the first person I've found who doesn't stuff his basement full of junk." The archaeologist paused, getting a good look around the brightly-lit space.

"It's not much of an improvement."

Indy snorted, surprised.

Gabriel stiffened, eyes going to the ceiling. "Do you hear that?"

A door, closing. Time had turned against them again, drifting into the unchangeable past. "They're here."

"Get under the stairs! Go!" Even as Gabriel raced up the wooden steps to shut the door and turn off the lights, Indy burrowed into the shadows lingering beneath. It was tiny, and cramped, especially when the hunter joined him, but the spider-filled space was cloaked in darkness even under the brightness of the lights. What was more, it was out of the way, and didn't catch the eye. They could stay here undiscovered, for as long as they had to.

Which turned out to be not very long at all. Feet were soft above, but wooden beams long unused creaked under new weight. Whoever they were, they were a large group. And they were headed toward the basement door.

"Dammit!" he hissed, voice so low he could barely hear it. "I thought you said backup was on the way!"

Eyes that should have been golden gleamed silver in the shadows under the stairs. And in a voice completely different from the hunter he knew, Gabriel answered, "It's here."


	8. Chapter 8

He had no time to ask – and no idea what he would have if time let him. The door above opened, letting quiet murmurs drift down to them. Wood creaked softly.

Indy stared as the assemblage of men swarmed into the basement. They weren't in the red robes yet; swathes of red silk were draped over Aaron's arm. One man took chalk and began to draw a large circle on the floor. Another started to set up candles; a third followed with a long wooden match.

"-to the center of the room." A group of four flexed muscle to shift the obsidian slab a few inches.

Another unknown voice spoke. "Twenty minutes. Get ready."

And as the group began to undress and put on the robes, Indy glanced at the hunter. Silver eyes glinted in the half-light filtering down to them; the other man blinked, and cold blue eyes looked back at him from Gabriel's face.

_Who are you?_

Because he'd known Gabriel for seventy years, and the person looking out at him from familiar features was not the man he knew. Not even the part of Gabriel that was the Left Hand of God. Indy had seen that Power unleashed more that once; every time, he prayed for it to be the last. It was _terrifying._

But whatever – whoever – this was. . . . it was nothing he had seen before.

"It's almost time." Aaron, now, as piles of discarded clothing were stacked neatly at the foot of the stairs; Indiana held his breath. "Bring the child."

Fury spurted. A hand reached for his gun. Fingers clamped on his wrist. "Wait," that cold voice breathed in his ear. The hell he would –

And the seven men in front of him stepped as one past the chalk line; an eighth, kneeling on the floor, closed the circle. The hair on the back of Indy's neck prickled, as Aaron murmured a soft word and began to sprinkle familiar herbs on the white chalk line.

And the ninth came back, with a limp little boy who couldn't have been six years old yet. Hands clamped, like steel bands, over his arms, holding him back when he would have burst out from under the stairs, firing his gun and not caring who he killed so long as he got to that baby before –

"You can't."

Indy glared at the stranger inside his friend's body. "I don't know who the hell you are," he snapped, voice low and lost under the chorus of chanting rising from the middle of the room. "But I am _not _leaving that kid to -"

"If you go in there now, you will save the boy." The stranger behind Gabriel's face stared at him implacably. "But you'll interrupt the ceremony – and that will only solidify the work they've done here."

"What?" They were losing time talking, he could feel it. But he couldn't break free of the other's grip.

"They've already almost opened the gateway," the man said. His voice, now that Indy was listening, had a strange, reverberant timbre to it. As Gabriel's had, when the Messenger had shed his humanity to become the Left Hand. But it wasn't Gabriel's voice; not even close. It shook him, deep inside. "The door is wedged half-open. The only way to erase what they've done here is to let them throw the door wide, and then slam it closed forever. If it's left as it is…" The chill froze him in horror. "The foibles of mankind will push the gateway open, over time, and there will be no closing it then."

"What do we do?" It was all he could ask.

"Wait."

He opened his mouth to protest, but it was all they could do, even now. Sit passive, and wait for their enemies to move. He hated it. His mind a whirl of what-to-do and when, time slipped so quickly away he was staggered by its loss.

Until the man next to him moved forward, out of the stairwell, as Aaron moved raised the obsidian knife. Indy shifted on his feet, ready to follow – until saw what was in the man's hand, and stopped dead.

It. . . _glowed_.

_Starlight,_ was the only thing Indiana could think. As the stranger shifted his grip on the hilt and the blade rose, starlight splintered into every color ever named and hundreds more besides. Pellucid, and beautiful. Light that had given birth to universes, and heralded their deaths. All in the form of bright, hot fire that shaped itself into a blade. _A flaming sword._

The weapon of angels.

The chanting stuttered into silence, as suddenly, the being's presence was noticed. Several feet away, the chalk-drawn barrier flared to garish, crimson life. Indy was frozen, half-under the stairs, eyes wide.

Aaron blinked, stunned, but only a moment was necessary before he gathered his courage back. "You cannot pass," he sneered. So confident, his quicksilver mind turning and probing and looking. And still blind. Indiana saw it, saw the destruction that would be wreaked here. This was a Power capable of unleashing plagues, of murdering firstborn and changing mere flesh to a pillar of salt from just an unwary glance.

This was a Destroyer.

The stranger tilted his head, and lifted the blade higher; the red robes blanched, and a few stumbled back. "You kept my brother out," and the voice was a barren wasteland, scraping over raw ears to leave him desolate. Indy gasped at the inhuman chill. "_But_ _you cannot deny me_."

And before he even moved, the barrier flickered and split with the scream of a lost soul. Easy as breathing, the protection that had shielded them was met and matched – and overcome.

And the Destroyer was in their midst. The starlit sword flamed through the air, faster than sight; a radiant blur was inscribed over Indy's senses, and the red robes crumpled boneless to concrete. Bodies fell, wide-eyed and staring, with not a mark on them. The speed of it was almost beyond comprehension. Eight were dead in half as many seconds, leaving the stranger advancing on the only man left standing.

Aaron Schaefer.

"Who are you?" To his credit, Schaefer's voice barely shook. Confident, still, in the power protecting him.

The stranger didn't answer, leveling the sword with the traitor's neck. Schaefer stood very still, but his face was sweaty and pale. "Who are you!"

"When you see Samael," the stranger said, in the voice that iced over Indy's bones, "tell him that it was Michael who sent you."

But instead of the burning sweep of blade that had parted the others from their lives, the point of this weapon drove deep into Schaefer's chest, searching for his heart. The reaction was immediate, and awful. Screaming soundlessly, Aaron's arms jerked out wide, his body rising on tiptoe with the agony. And the stranger with the glacial blue eyes left him there, mouth working noiselessly, until the flesh slumped and the light of a soul faded from behind Schaefer's eyes.

The basement was filled with death. "Michael?"

Blue eyes, the frozen fury melted from them, met his. The stranger in Gabriel's body inclined the dark head. "Yes." And the voice was – almost normal. But not quite.

Indy looked around carefully. The flame from his weapon had done more than bring swift justice to the evildoers here. The writing on the walls was gone, and it was as if the chalk circle had never existed. A small form on obsidian stirred, and Indiana raced for the child, memory sparked by the motion. The little boy sighed in his sleep, and nestled a thumb in his mouth. Carefully gathering up the child, he spared another question for the entity waiting for them. "How do we explain this?"

"We don't." Another sweep of the blade left the obsidian altar in a million razored shards. A whispered word shook the air around them, and the beautiful blade disappeared. Indy felt a pang at the loss; frightening it had been, but also as lovely as the ark.

As they ascended the stairs, the being told him in quiet words of how the men of this cult had been practicing with illegal drugs, and had poisoned themselves in an elaborate ritual of mass suicide.

"That's it?" He cradled the child, glad for the excuse to not have to look into the strange eyes in his friend's face.

"Except for their leader," the stranger – Michael – said coldly. "He suffered a heart attack."

_Suffered_ being the operative word in that sentence. Indy grimaced; the memory of pure light seeking the death of those men was still fresh. He couldn't deny that the punishment had fit the crime. He was simply tired of death.

Michael turned to face him. Indy knew Gabriel's face, but he had never seen this expression on it. Cold, and utterly without mercy. As if forgiveness was something completely beyond this creature. "Do not mourn them," the being ordered. "They nearly succeeded in allowing hell to swallow the world. It would have started with Chicago, but it wouldn't have been long before the earth was consumed."

"How did you stop them?" was what he asked instead, as they left stuffy rooms for fresh air. The sun was shining brightly on the grass; a warm contrast to the chill that pervaded the still house behind.

Michael's gaze was a freezing scan that seemed to pierce through to his soul. Indy shivered despite the heat of the day. The cold eyes softened; no longer ice, but snow. "When my brother met the power of the Light-Bringer, he could not overcome it," Michael said, using Gabriel's mouth. "One alone could never do more than match him, for he was once one of the greatest of us all. But together, we could do more. He knew this, and he asked for my help." A small smile, and a flash of something that might have been humor behind blue eyes. "Do not fear. I must leave soon."

Officer Jones ignored that first, focusing on the last statement. He shifted the child in his arms, sparing a brief glance down at the mop of reddish hair. "What will happen to Gabriel?"

At that, the stranger smiled truly, and Indy blinked.

"I have watched you, over the years," Michael said. "I have wondered if you were worthy of the gift granted you. I am glad to see it is so."

Indy blinked, puzzling over those words as the first of the sirens roared down the street. The black-and-whites screeched over pavement and almost onto the grass in a flurry of red and blue lights. Time, slippery and molten, flowed away once more. The scene was roped off, the child given into custody, and reports given. Bodies were moved, and Indy and the man in Gabriel Harker's body were brought back to the station.

Throughout it all, Michael remained, perfectly echoing the manner of the man that had formerly inhabited Gabriel's skin. It was enough to make Indy wonder – and not just about the observational skills of his fellow policemen.

Hours slipped into the past, and they were finally allowed to leave. To rest, now that the crisis was over.

Indy drove silently back to the hotel. He spared another glance for the man in the passenger seat, wondering if he would notice. How he would tell. Blue eyes caught him, with something that could have been amusement. Finally, he could stand it no longer. "So," Indy cleared his throat, and stopped for a red light. "When will, um – how do -"

Gabriel would have rescued him when words failed. This being just let him struggle through the sentence, a smile twitching at his lips.

"Gabriel. When is he coming back?" Indy's face was red. It was a hot day, after all.

Michael gave him another of those half-familiar expressions; this one, a full smile. "I would spare him as much of this as I can," he said quietly. "My little brother rarely has the chance to rest." One shoulder lifted in an elegant shrug. "It is . . . part of who he is, to care for humanity. I cannot see it as he does, but then – I suppose it is better that way."

Horns blared; Indy noticed the green light suddenly, and slammed a foot on the gas. The question came out of nowhere, and passed his lips before he could think. "Is that why he called you?"

A sharp glance speared him, but Indiana kept his eyes on the road, and pretended not to notice.

"I have come to his aid before," Michael said softly. "And Samael – who you know as the Light-Bringer – is my eternal rival."

_So the texts got that part right at least._ Indy shook his head in wonder. And had to pull out of the way as an orange Ferrari blasted by. Driving took all his attention then, and they reached the hotel only a few moments later. Silence consumed them as they rode the elevator up, and tread carpeted halls to their rooms. He had the feeling, and paused outside his door. "I'll see you again."

Michael smiled, and the expression was almost completely Gabriel's. "I guarantee it."

* * *

**A/N:** I'm not playing with MPD, I swear! The story just wanted to be written that way. And I decided to pause here for a moment, a chapter away from the end, and thank all my reviewers; your comments, good and bad, keep me learning and improving. Thanks! 


	9. Chapter 9

"He traced my name," Indy grimaced, still poking through computer files in Schaefer's laptop. It was almost two p.m., and he'd only been awake for four hours. Yesterday had been frantic. Then sleep had devoured the time left in the day plus the entire night . . . "There was a discrepancy in some of the dates that set him off. Damn, I thought I fixed that -"

"He found a picture." Gabriel held up an old black-and-white photo as he rifled through Aaron's desk. Indy saw himself and his father smiling out of it, on either side of Marcus and Sallah. The four who had gone in search of the Grail.

Indy reached for the picture, and gazed at familiar, long-dead faces. "Even though we 'failed' in our search for the Grail, there was quite a lot of publicity. I thought I burned all of it – newspaper articles, archives. I guess I missed a few things." He grimaced. He was at heart an archaeologist; it went against everything he was to destroy history.

Gabriel shrugged, pushing wavy hair back from his face. "You were quite a noted scholar at the time," he said quietly. "Your colleagues probably knew where you were going and wanted to know what you were up to. And they kept private notes, and news articles, and such. There was no way you could have erased all sign of what happened."

Indy deleted a few more computer files, biting the inside of his cheek. "I guess you would know," he said at last.

The hunter laughed.

It was strange, Indy reflected. Michael had never been this warm or open, though he'd only met the other entity for a short time. It seemed to him that Gabriel was more alive, more human, than his brother could ever be. And he was glad for it.

"No, wait – look at the date on this," Indy said softly, attention ensnared by the computer files. "It's old. _Years_ old." A horrid sinking feeling weighted his stomach.

Gabriel peered over his shoulder at the laptop's screen. "All the Grail research is," he noted, looking over the harddrive's log. "No wonder he was so desperate to make you talk."

"What?" Indy twisted, trying to read the other man's expression.

Powerful shoulders lifted in a casual shrug. "He bargained his soul to open up the gateway."

"And he thought the Grail could save it," Indy put the pieces together. He might have been a little out of his depth when it came to miraculous beings and the war between the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness, but he understood people. "He planned all of it in advance. He was trying to double-cross the devil."

"Hmmm."

"That's all you have to say?" Indy bit down on a laugh, pulling up older documents. He was going to take a magnet to the harddrive as soon as he was done here.

Gabriel sifted through more papers, setting some off to the side. "It's been tried before," he said absently, reading something that had Aaron's loopy handwriting all over it. "Usually by the clever or the foolish. Look at this."

Looseleaf paper, filled with lines of writing. Gabriel tapped one paragraph in particular, and Indy read.

_'I believe it was a publicized failure, to conceal their success. The only question is, what did they do with it? None of the men came back with the Grail. It wasn't passed down to their descendants; only the Egyptian had any to be concerned about. It gave them the power to live forever. _

_'I am going to find it. It must be hidden – and Henry Jones Jr. knows where. It is a gift from the devil that he's here, in my grasp. And I'm going to use it. Now that I know the tales of the holy relics are true, then it must follow that the legends of my family are true as well._ _If the Black Mass can confer incredible power, and if it is a rite that will bring power beyond imagining . . . I will have it.'_

"Legends. About the Black Mass." Indy set the paper down, and met comforting hazel eyes. "God."

Gabriel shook his head in frustration. "There's a few more drawers here, but more files on the computer, probably."

Indy leapt back for the keyboard, typing and searching. Half an hour was lost to the screen, and the few windows that he pulled up didn't clear his confusion. Rubbing tired eyes with latex-covered fingers, he sat back. "Find anything?"

Gabriel was putting papers back into the desk, and he shut the final drawer with a sigh. "Just a few things that detail his suspicions about you. Some notes on the Grail that should be destroyed. What more was on the computer?"

"I found the legends about the Black Mass," Indy shrugged. "A lot of it just looks like propaganda. "And -" he reached for the mouse. "And what looks like a family tree."

"Wait. Scroll back up," Gabriel snapped, leaning over the archaeologist's shoulder. Surprised, Indy went up, and froze when the hunter hissed. "Pardoe."

"What do you know about them?" Indy probed. The names were foreign to him.

"Kevin and Louisa Pardoe," Gabriel said, matching up the dates. A finger drifted close to the computer screen, but didn't touch. "They lived in Boxborough, Massachusetts, until spring of 1889. When they left the town was the last I knew of them. But if they passed down these – tales – to their children. . . they were more dangerous than I realized."

"They were Aaron's maternal great-grandparents. The name lasted until Aaron's mother was married, just after the second World War," Indy mused.

"It's all direct-line descendants," Gabriel noted, going further and further up the tree. "No branching, and no more relatives than necessary. There has to be more family than this."

"He's protecting them." The implications were enough to make him sick. Indy swallowed hard, staring at the screen. "There's no way of knowing how many more people are aware of the Black Mass. Not from just this."

"With luck, they'll give it as much credit as Schaefer apparently did, before he found out about the Grail," Gabriel said grimly. _Meaning, none at all._ But hazel eyes didn't believe the hope.

"What are we going to do about it?"

Gabriel started, then shot him a small smile. "Nothing."

"Nothing!"

Gabriel rubbed a weary hand over his face, and began to explain. "We don't know who these people are, or even where. It would be difficult to find them; why do so if there's no certainty that they even believe these stories?"

It sounded thin to him. Indy narrowed his eyes, and studied the hunter. Gabriel still looked tired. Some of that was doubtless from . . . whatever had happened. As far as he could tell, Michael had gone to sleep, and Gabriel had woken up. As for summoning the weapon – Gabriel spent his spirit like coin to protect the peoples of Earth. So his body was still tired from the previous day, even though his soul had been . . . elsewhere. Indiana didn't think about it too closely. "Fine."

Gabriel relaxed; and the archaeologist got his answer. Whatever might happen with this, it was the hunter's mission alone.

To tell the truth, he wanted no more part of death. For seven years, he'd tried to help by being a policeman. He'd spent time the previous day tendering his resignation letter.

"Is there anything else?" Gabriel asked.

"Just let me wipe the harddrive clean, and we'll be ready to go." Magnet in hand, Indy poked through plastic casing, searching for the disk encoding the computer's memory.

"Good." Gabriel stripped off latex gloves, flexing his fingers. They had license to be here, and go through Aaron's things – but there would be few ways to explain if they left prints where they shouldn't be. And all of them were extremely unpleasant.

Indy opened the doors on the way out, closing them carefully before yanking off his own gloves. He scrubbed sticky palms against his jeans, grimacing at the powdery plastic sensation that lingered on skin. Sliding behind the wheel of his police car, he skimmed his fingers along the wheel, waiting. "Back to the station?"

Gabriel nodded. "I have a few things to clear up before I head out of Chicago."

Indy turned the key, and the car flared to life. He understood; he was planning to do the same himself. He pulled out of the driveway, hanging a quick right before a stream of cars left them trapped. "How long are you staying?"

"I'm leaving tonight."

It was soon, and sudden. He was accustomed to it, but sometimes he wished he had a little more time with the people who now made up his family.

"How's your father?" Gabriel asked suddenly.

Indy grinned, weaving around a slow-moving Oldsmobile and its elderly driver. "He's good. I called him last night. He's got a few plans for underwater excavation of Tartessos."

"Spain?"

"The Iberian Peninsula, in Andalusia," Indy confirmed, warming to the topic. "It was a harbor city from at least 1000 BCE. He wants to look deeper and see if the ties to Atlantis are more validated than current theory projects." A thought hit him, and he gave his passenger a sideways look. "I don't suppose you'd know anything about that?" He had to slam on the brakes as someone cut him off.

"Tartessos?" The innocent look was belied by the smirk that followed, but Indy wasn't fooled. Gabriel just grinned. "Every sunken city is believed to be Atlantis. At least until someone finds a new one."

Unable to argue with something that was a basic fact, Indy shook his head. The near pile-up drifted back into the flow of main traffic; instead of following, he pulled into the station parking lot. "Dad's heading out next month."

"Are you going to go with him?"

"Maybe next trip," Indiana said evasively, unbuckling his seatbelt. "This one's bound to keep him occupied for at least the next three years."

"That's not long," Gabriel noted absently. "Tempus fugit."

Indy snorted. "No shit."

It surprised an answering grin out of the hunter, before the Captain saw that they'd both come back and hustled them off to his office to find out what the hell was going on. After experiencing fifteen minutes of hell in the form of the most thorough debrief he'd ever been subjected to, with the added promise of more later, Indy was freed to find solitude in his office.

Crouching in his chair, he tried to take in the idea that they were done, and the case was solved. For once, they'd caught the bad guys, and true justice had been carried out. Indy trusted the law – but it wasn't infallible. And its faults costs lives, sometimes.

_But not this time._

He woke up his computer, and pulled up his resignation letter. Once the details were wrapped up with this case, he was giving his two-weeks' notice. Printing it out, he signed the paper and folded it into an envelope. That went safely into a desk drawer, and Indy turned his attention to the open file on his desk; the file was renamed now with Schaefer's name. Indy didn't bother to find out whatever macabre moniker the dayshift had dubbed the serial child rape-murders. He honestly didn't want to know.

A noise at the door pulled his attention from the file. Gabriel leant against the doorjamb, hands comfortably tucked in his pockets. The black hair was tied back once more, and hazel eyes were calm.

It was a ritual they'd observed every time they parted, in one form or another. "You headed out?"

"Yes."

"See you around," Indy offered. And they both knew he would. It was just a question of when. Time was tricky that way.

Gabriel inclined his head, hazel eyes locking on grey with the steadiness of promise. "Sure thing."

It was eerily close to what Michael had said, yet uniquely his friend. Indy smothered the shiver and managed a smile before the hunter walked out the door. And was gone.

_**Fin**_

* * *

**A/N: **This one goes out to all my great reviewers for putting up with my abysmal delays and encouraging me every step of the way! This wouldn't be done without you! Want proof? Kudos to trecebo for catching the (now fixed) typo in this chapter:) 


End file.
